Turtle ValleyBy: Gail Anderson Dargatz My memories are so like that hat full of butterflies, some already deteriorating the moment they are collected, some breathed back to life now and again, for a brief moment, by the scent on a passing windthe smell of an orange, perhaps, or a whiff of brown sugar fudgebefore drifting away, just out of my reach. How much of myself flits away with each of these tattered memories? How much of myself have I already lost? (Turtle